Chronicle of Cranky Sherlock
by Godzilla720
Summary: A Femlock. Sherlock has Aunt Irma over, and doesn't want John to know. When the chase is nonexistent, and cramps are wrecking havoc, what does a Consulting Detective do? Better yet, what does her blogger do? No romance. Just friends. For a contest. Originally a one shot.
1. Chapter 1

A Day of Cranky _**She**_rlock - A Femlock

_I do not own Sherlock BBC, nor the Nutella company. _

It was drizzling outside the illusion of safety the flat gave. But then rain was not unusual for 10:24 AM on a Sunday in London. Mrs. Hudson had left for the week, to visit her sister, and no murders had cropped up. That alone was reason enough, in Sherlock's eyes, to be surly. But then there was the added horror of brother dear calling, claiming his humdrum of a case was of 'national importance'. And then of course a Menstrual Cycle and hellish cramps, causing her back to ache and head to throb. Usually she did not let it get to her. But then again, usually she had something to distract from the pain. She had taken two pain relievers exactly 37 minutes ago, and could feel no noticeable transition.

John was still sleeping, his soft snores audible to Sherlock, a set beat which she could easily predict. John's snoring created a steady pattern for her own breathing to fall into. But John couldn't sleep all day. He had things to do, like make food, and entertain her. The nearby 9 mil, paired with the worn yellow smiling face on the wall had her thinking of a brilliant way to awake her slumbering flatmate and demand food. It was one of the seldom things of life, to see Sherlock eating. She was sure John wouldn't mind. After all, she had let him sleep in.

Five shots and a flannel clad John later Sherlock was assured of food. She was aiming to shoot the sulfur hued smiling face again before John suddenly took away the gun, claiming that no more shots needed firing. Sherlock fixed a scowl on his retreating form, standing from the leather black couch and tread on and over the stained coffee table.

She made her way to the boiling tea John had started, and then glanced over at her newest experiment. She had been puzzling over the amount of time it took till the toenails of the deceased fell off of their own accord. She knew that fingernails fell off at 8 1/2 months and seven days, give or take a few hours. Most would assume that toenails would take the same amount of time, but Sherlock was not 'most' people. Sherlock gave an absent minded rub to her lower back, turning from the experiment, back to the living room.

John came down from a shower before Sherlock could get too impatient. He glanced at his flatmate, and best friend, wishing he could have had just 10 more minutes of sleep. It was his day off from surgery. But he knew that Sherlock wouldn't care about that. He made his way to the kitchen, grabbing the loaf that hid away in the bread box.

"Bread and jam sound good?" John inquired, not expecting a reply. Sherlock couldn't be bothered with what the food was. She could barely bother with food at all. He took a knife from the drying wrack, opening the fridge for the jam. He was met with a bag of what looked like thumbs.

"No, bread and Nutella. Jam is boring" Sherlock shot off without a moments hesitation. John turned around, mouth open in preparation for talking, before he swiveled back to face the counter.

"Alright then." He answered, popping the slices of bread into the toaster. He took the plastic jar of Nutella from the cupboard and waited till the bread popped up from the warmth of the toaster. He took the pieces out quickly, not keen on burning his fingers.

Sherlock watched the rain drizzle from her standing position in front of the window. She held the draped back, to get a better view. "How dull the day will be. Lestrade wont call. Hes begrudged us since the yelling he got from his idiot of a boss. Of course its not my fault that his forensic team are squandering dunderheads. I simply found what needed to be found. Why his boss was upset at such a thing is Lestrade's problem." She turned away from the window, flicking the lacy drapes back to their original position.

John sighed, smearing the chocolate and hazel nut spread onto the pieces of bread. "You called his boss a blundering brainless drone who didn't understand the meaning of analysis. Then you left without explaining how the sister was to blame. Its really no wonder Lestrade and his boss was upset." He let the two chipped plates onto one of Mrs Hudson's borrowed trays. The water in the kettle was now boiling, ready for a tea bag.

"No, I said he didn't understand the meaning of analyzing a crime scene and then transitioning those conclusions into evidence. And he is a blundering, brainless drone, who wouldn't know how to identify a criminal if one danced right underneath his nose." She huffed out, flopping into her armchair.

John spooned in Sherlock's two sugars into her tea and set the cups on the platter as well. "You should think about what you say, Sherlock. If you do something people don't like, they wont do what you want them to." He knew his scolding was all for not, because Sherlock didn't care for the opinions of others. She could probably make them do her bidding by bribery, or just by annoying them to the point of death anyhow. John made his way to the living room, moving to set the now heavy tray down on the coffee table.

She rolled her eyes, taking her cup of tea from the tray before John had even set it down. "Why should I have to work for them to comply to me demands. I _help _them, don't I?" She ate one of her two Nutella smothered toasts in just a few seconds. She then took another delicate sip of tea. How she knew which one was hers, John wasn't sure of.

Sherlock was grateful for the Nutella. The chocolate in it would release chemicals which would then release Endorphin's The warm tea didn't hurt either. The pain in her lower back would melt away soon enough. Till then, she could ignore it.

"Pace yourself, Sherlock" John spoke, as he started on one of his pieces of toast and she polished off the second. John watched as she rolled her eyes, swallowing with all the elegance of a duck.

"There is nothing to pace myself on _now_, is there Doctor?" Sherlock drank the rest of her tea and then squirmed. Her cramps were becoming more painful by the second. It seemed the pain relievers; man made, or organic did nothing to help, other than making her feel drowsy.

"Whats wrong?" John asked immediately at seeing her slightly scrunched face. Sherlock hid pain rather well, but John had known her long enough to know the signs of discomfort. He set his mug down, leaning over to get a better look at the woman.

"I'm fine, John. Eat your food." She snarled, curling into her usual sulking ball of blue robe and curly black hair.

"No, your not. What's wrong?" He asked, going over her to check for bruises, cuts scrapes or dilated pupils. She let out an unhappy sound. Clearly awaking John had been a bad idea. He wasn't nearly as unobservant as most of the population. And to make it worse he was a doctor, a natural worrier and a soldier. He knew when someone wasn't feeling well.

"Go away John. You've made me food, you can go back to sleep now." She knew this demand would not work, but perhaps being her usual self would assure him that she was fine. Or at least make him irate enough to not care how she was feeling.

"I'm awake now, I can't very well go back to sleep." This was a lie, of course. John Watson could sleep almost on command if he so chose, day or night. But he wasn't going to sleep when Sherlock had possibly gotten herself hurt. She was curling in on herself. Perhaps something internal? In the stomach?

"John, let me be, or you will find the flat suddenly completely littered with dismembered body parts. Your room included." Sherlock generally left John's room alone, remembering how annoyed Mycroft got when she went onto his room when they were children. This of course caused her to go in at all times. But she respected John, to some degree and since he did not intrude into her room she let his be as well. This kindness could easily fall away if she so wished it so.

"Sherlock," John said, exasperated. He was trying to help not annoy. Although there was a thin line between the two when it came to Sherlock.

"Go away, Doctor. Don't you have grocery shopping to do?" John was about to say something again, but Sherlock stood and made her way to the bathroom before he could utter a word. No need for him to know about her female problems Sometimes she truly her fathers sperm had been an X, rather than a Y.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ok, new chapter. Hope you enjoy_.

Sherlock hid in the bathroom for a good thirty minutes, before the mind numbing boredom got to her. She cracked open the door, listening for what John was doing. The crinkle of today's newspaper could be heard. Good, he was entertained. Perhaps she could get some work done.

She headed to the kitchen, where the foot lay. It would have to sit for quiet a while and eventually would start to smell putrid. Both John and Mrs. Hudson would complain and Sherlock would be forced to get rid of it. She couldn't very well put it in the fridge. That would be the wrong condition, which meant something might go wrong. But she could bury it. That was, after all, the state it would be in. Yes, she would bury it. Of course, she would have to bury it 6 feet under, as most graves would be. Else wildlife start to gather.

Sherlock swept off her bath robe, the silk landing lightly on the couch, and headed for her room, to grab her blazer. She half ran back to the living room. As she took her coat from the hanger behind the door and slid her arms into the sleeves wrapping her much loved scarf around her neck afterwards, John stood. "Where are we off to then?" He asked, grabbing his own coat.

"I'm going to the park. You do whatever you like." She paced to the kitchen, taking the foot from off the table, and tucking it into a small shoe box that hid from sight on the top shelf of one cupboard. John watched in confusion, looking slightly hurt. "Why are you bringing the foot?" The '_and not me_' wasn't said, but it was heard.

"I need to bury it. I thought you would find it an unproductive thing to do with your day off, and so did not ask you to come along." She winced slightly as she turned away from her one, true friend. Cramps were a part of it, but also her tone. She sounded so direct, as if she was cross with him. Now he would be cross with her, and she wouldn't be getting any attention, or food for at least the rest of the day.

But, to her surprise, her short companion grabbed her arm. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" He demanded, gripping her arm firmly.

"Nothing, John." He didn't let go, instead he opted to stare at her. She hated when he did this. He would continue to stare until she broke. It was embarrassing the amount of times she actually did break.

"Leave it, John." Sounding very testy, she jerked her arm out of his grip, and marched off. And now John was really worried.

Had she gone and gotten herself high? Had there been a danger night, triggered by some unseen source? She had and always would be hard to live with or even be acquainted with her. But she had never been like this. He couldn't explain it. Not even when Ivan Adler had been around, had she been this... shaken. And now she was avoiding his help! But John knew the signs. Pupils dilating, a cold sweat and shaking limbs. Then again two of the three would only be after withdraw.

So maybe she hadn't. Maybe it was something else. Maybe he was over reacting. But then, maybe he was right on point. Maybe...

John quickly called Mycroft, breathing tight.

"John? Whats happened?" The older man sounded calm, but John knew that he had to be worried. John only ever called about Sherlock, after all.

"Sherlock. Shes been... in pain. Something happened. Shes hiding something."

Mycroft took quiet a while to respond. "Dr. Watson. May I remind you of the date?" John huffed, frustrated. He knew the date, it was the 8th.

"I know what the date is. What I don't know is why your focusing on that, when-"

"And, may I ask," He butted in, rudly. "What Sherlock was like last month, around this same time?"

"She was a bit tetchy, but... oh." John's shoulders relaxed, despite his now slightly pink cheeks.

"Right. Sorry for... bothering you."

"Really, you are a doctor, John." Mycroft hung up before John had the chance.

"Right." John muttered, tucking his phone into his pocket. "Right."


End file.
